


A Perpetual Intercourse Should Now Be Opened

by rei_c



Series: Threefold Path [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Animal Sacrifice, Blasphemy, Blood, Blood and Gore, Caning, Explicit Language, F/M, Harm to Animals, Heavy BDSM, Knifeplay, Literary References & Allusions, M/M, Philosophy, Sibling Incest, Tattoos, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-09-19
Updated: 2009-09-19
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:54:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21975412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rei_c/pseuds/rei_c
Summary: Sam may not be the only one changing in order to fit his future role. When it starts happening to Dean, will Sam sit back and watch or will he join his enemies in trying to prevent it?
Relationships: Castiel/Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Demons/Dean Winchester, Demons/Sam Winchester, Ruby/Sam Winchester
Series: Threefold Path [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1581844
Comments: 2
Kudos: 21





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A meditation on the story of Jacob's Ladder.
> 
> \--
> 
> The title comes from Adam Clarke's commentary and critical notes to the 1836 NIV Holy Bible. It is part of public domain and can be found here via GoogleBooks. The phrase is used as a note to John 1:51 and references the story of Jacob's Ladder, found in Genesis 28:11-19. More information on Adam Clarke and his work can be found here. The prayer that Dean recites is the Adoro te devote.
> 
> References are made to Walt Whitman's "There was a Child went Forth" and Percy Shelley's Prometheus Unbound. As always, Blake is peppered throughout (new this installment: "Broken Love"). I have stolen, used, and otherwise mangled lines of dialogue from "Lazarus Rising," specifically, and season four, generally. Be warned.
> 
> \--
> 
> Originally posted [here](https://rei-c.livejournal.com/1156661.html), with fully listed-out pairings, warnings, and dedications.

Sam dreams. 

\--

 _Rend, tear, kill, bruise, rip, murder, bleed, crush, break, sever, tear, mangle, pound, annihilate_ \--

Wrath looks up, the hands of her host covered in blood, pieces of skin and muscle splattered over her host's arms and chest and forehead. She tilts her head to one side, eyes showing nothing but black as she listens. 

A smile crosses her lips and she stands, ignores the wailing of sirens in the distance, coming closer. She spits, fragments of bone clattering on the floor, and licks her teeth clean of gristle. "A summons I can't ignore," she whispers to herself. "One I'd rather not ignore." Wrath throws the host's head back, streams out of the woman's mouth, and flies away to the sound of screaming and gunfire. 

\--

She hovers, watches Dean Winchester, the Prince's Consort, carefully. Dean is alone and he reeks of the prince, tendrils of the prince's demon all over his body and soul, laying claim to Dean in a way that no demon could ignore. Some would see that claim and back away in fear, others would find it an intoxicating challenge, but not Wrath. Oh, not Wrath, because she can smell something else lurking around Dean. 

She smells herself. Dean carries the scent of Wrath, but also of Pride, of Lust and Envy and Greed, trace hints of Sloth and Gluttony. All of Lilith's Magnificent Seven, sliding around that human body, that redeemed soul. 

Wrath feels something she hasn't felt in aeons: curiosity. 

With effort, bolstered by her recent possession and her proximity to the prince, Wrath turns corporeal, settling into the body she finds most comfortable, the one she met the prince with down in the ninth circle. Hair flies wildly from her scalp, nails jaggedly sharp, eyes as black as the night between two stars. 

Dean whirls, stumbles back from the sight of her eyes. He reaches for a gun, a weapon, and opens his mouth. 

"I won't harm you," Wrath says, irritation at the truth of her words coiling under her skin. "By the prince's own command." She is not like the demons who will push the prince further and further, not like Lilith who will hide secrets from him and wait as he puzzles them out. Wrath has belonged to the prince since the first time he held a knife in his hand and thought about using it. 

Just as the prince is a bundle of contradictions, so, too, is she. Wrath can be blinding fury and murderous insanity but Wrath is also straight-forward hatred, clear-eyed rage, the calm-headed search for vengeance and the cold ice of premeditation. Messes are well and good in their time but the Prince's Consort, he'll prefer cleanliness. Wrath knows this like she knows herself; she is in him, inside of Dean, a part of him, and like all who taste of her gifts, he is a part of her. That grants them some connection she can't begin to fathom. Not since the prince's stay in hell has she so badly wanted to stretch someone on a rack and see if she can't find the place where the two of them must meet, where they overlap. 

The Prince's Consort has changed everything. The mere fact that he is still breathing changes everything. That his soul is still in one piece, claimed by hell but unknowing of its depths, redeemed and yet twisting more and more every hour he remains alive, will change eternity. Wrath is not the smartest of Lilith's Magnificent Seven but even she can see this. 

"Why are you here?" Dean asks. Wrath can't contain the grin as he adds, "And which one are you?" 

She circles him, studying the way her own essence is scrawled across his soul, mingling with Lust and Pride most of all, the others faint but on their way to growing darker. "I am this one," she says, and purrs, pulling on the connection between them. 

The Consort is human, but still he shudders and faces her with wide, wild eyes, the pulse in his throat jumping. Wrath smells blood, looks and sees his hands clenched into fists. Droplets stain the ground and the scent of human anger tinged with crimson darkness rises heavy around them. 

"Wrath," he growls. She nods, smiling at him, showing him her bloodstained teeth. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"You called me," she says. "Summoned me yourself, without any sign or symbol. How could I not answer the Prince's Consort?"

Dean's eyes narrow. "How did I summon you?" he asks, snarling. He takes one glancing step towards her, then stops, bares his teeth. "And what the _fuck_ are you gonna do now?" 

She can feel herself bleed across him like rain. His cheeks are flushed, his ears red as he stands there and vibrates with tension that leaks out through his glower. Her eyes drop to the chain around his neck; delicate, it appears as if it might break with a thought. She reaches out a hand without thinking, intent on pulling; either it will break or Dean will, a mark on his skin or into his skin, blood and bruises and pain. 

Dean flinches, though, and steps back once, then again, out of reach. Wrath pouts and Dean's eyes widen before they narrow again. They look like thin strips of colour against Dean's pale and freckled skin. "Why are you _really_ here?" 

He's angry, yes, but he sounds as though he's ready to listen. Wrath could rip someone limb from limb in celebration. "You," she says, "change things. As you yourself are changing. Perhaps you should _control_ that change." Dean's anger leaks away and Wrath can feel herself start to fade, her demon too weak to hold shape for much longer without Dean's rage resonating to give her strength. "The prince cannot help you with this. It is your choice, Consort. This time the outcome must be due to _your_ action." 

She melts, spinning into the air, laughing as she searches for anger, for blood, for hatred. She flies across Dean's skin, coiling around his neck, skimming the edge of the stone hanging from a chain that stings and burns her. Wrath breathes into his ear, "Call another, one who will stay longer." She draws teeth down his neck, nails across the skin of throat. "Or talk to the princess. She would tell you the same, I think, with that piece of herself around your neck: our prince's action saved you. He can do nothing that would condemn you now." 

Fury, she feels, mind turning away from Dean, away from the prince. Rend, she thinks. Rend and tear, kill and bruise, music to her ears. Wrath turns south, the taste of murder already in her mouth, cold anger left in her wake as she soars and twists, finds humans to ride towards damnation. 

\--

Sam dreams and then Sam wakes. He sits up and finds himself alone in bed, mind heavy and hazy with cotton. With a thought, he sends his senses outwards, lowering his barriers just enough to feel Caésinha across the city, to find Vetis across the state, to track Ruby halfway across the country. 

Caésinha stops what she is doing, the body she is wearing poised between movements, and waits to see if Sam calls her. Vetis turns his head toward Sam, already moving. Sam sends waves of reassurance down the bonds he has to each of them, tells them to stay, to relax, that nothing is wrong. 

Ruby says nothing, does nothing. Still Sam gets the sense of ' _soon_ ' from her and wonders how long it will take before she knocks on his door again. It has been too long.

With a yawn, Sam gets out of bed, pulls on a pair of boxers, and pads to the door. He opens it, sees Dean standing outside, looking south. "Come back to bed," Sam says, blinking in the darkness. He hears something in the distance, bells chiming, a trumpet echoing off of dust and stone, and wonders if it is imagination or a warning or, perhaps, not simply a dream. He doesn't know what is real, anymore. Every night it gets worse.

Dean turns, looks at him for long minutes that stretch out and warp time. Then, with a smile shadowing his lips, Dean walks toward Sam. They kiss, Dean's tongue in Sam's mouth, Dean's hands pressing deep into Sam's hips. Dean will leave bruises, nails digging in and drawing crescent moons of blood inside of oval-shaped colours. Sam will heal, not instantly but close to it. 

Sam's eyes are open; Dean's are not. Dean pushes Sam back against the wall, claws his nails down Sam's chest. Sam gasps, tastes Wrath on Dean's tongue, feels her touch all over his brother. 

Dean smirks against Sam's mouth and then opens his eyes. In the night, Dean's eyes are endless black. 

\--

Sunrise comes with a vengeance, slipping through the cracks of the blinds and landing on Sam's face like a bird come home to roost. Sam mumbles under his breath, twists and shifts until his face is pressed against Dean's skin, his brother's arm holding Sam tight. Sam doesn't want to wake up, doesn't want to get moving. He inhales deeply, sneezes as the smells of Wrath and Lust rides thick up his nostrils. 

"Thanks," Dean mutters, his hold on Sam tightening for a moment before he relaxes, nails caught on the smooth plane of Sam's skin. 

Sam looks up at his brother, studies Dean, the way Dean's eyes are still crusted with sleep, hints of green peeking through. 

"Take a picture," Dean says. "Last longer." 

"Idiot," Sam says, then bends his head back down, presses his lips to Dean's skin. He licks up the moisture from his sneeze and doesn't stop once it's gone, tongue catching on every bump and scar as he licks and sucks and bites his way from Dean's chest down to the line of Dean's hip. 

Dean runs one hand through Sam's hair, grips the ends before Sam's hair can slip from his grasp. Sam looks up, eyebrow raised. "What?" he asks. 

It looks like Dean's going to say something, maybe even something about what happened last night when Sam was sleeping, but then Dean shakes his head and gives Sam a smile as shadowed as midnight. "Nothing," Dean says. 

Sam doesn't push, not when he has secrets of his own to hide. He's been dreaming of demons lately, dreaming of them as if he _was_ them, riding them as they ride humans, but he thought it was remnants of his time in hell, some kind of deeper settling into his role as prince. He never once entertained the possibility that any of it was actually happening and happening in real-time. Now, though, after last night, he's not sure. He hasn't had a precognitive dream since before Cold Oak. This wasn't one, not exactly, not precognitive so much as clairvoyant, but to have a dream like this at all, when they still don't know why or how he can heal like a demon, doesn't bode well. 

Lilith won't tell him what's going on but there are demons almost as old as her, others he can ask who might be willing to answer. Sam doesn't relish the thought of summoning them to earth but doesn't see another way. He'll have to do it soon. 

Bells ring out, in the distance, again, as Sam noses his way down the line of Dean's, tongue darting out to taste Dean's cock. Dean lets go of his hair, merely tilts his hips up, dick sliding past Sam's lips and into his mouth. 

Sam sucks, adds the hint of teeth that Dean seems to like lately, and relaxes the muscles in his throat as Dean buries himself to the root in Sam. The tang of Lust rides up between them and Sam pulls back, just enough so that he can lick at the head of Dean's cock before swallowing it down again. 

Dean comes with a sigh, eyes closed and neck stretched out. Sam reaches up and touches the collar sitting around his own neck, comparing for the millionth time the way the leather and Dean's skin feel. He drops his eyes, leans down and nuzzles the soft skin of Dean's inner thigh as his brother falls back asleep. 

\--

Sam does his research on astral projection; he's mocked it before but it has to be close to whatever he's starting doing. He's still human, after all, so it can't be mere possession alone. He reads Muldoon and Crowley, spends two days at the library paging through the latest self-help books on transcendental meditation and the chakras, even studies rituals that people have used for millennia to throw themselves out of their bodies and into other planes. 

He's not too sure that any of this applies to him, that any of it will be the least bit helpful. Still, Sam knows that he has to try, so, two weeks and three motels later, he leaves a note in case Dean comes back early before traipsing into the woods behind the motel. Sam finds a space big enough for what he has planned and starts by laying out a pentagram in belladonna and wormwood. Once that's done, he smears an oil infused with honeysuckle and valerian onto his eyelids and takes a deep breath. 

He hasn't needed the oil or the pentagram before but he's never tried doing this on purpose. It makes him feel better, grounds him in a way as he closes his eyes and feels the thick, heavy oil, smells the wormwood around him and the faintest trace of crushed belladonna berries. 

Sam breathes in, breathes out, and abruptly feels the demon inside of him start to move. He breathes in again, holds it for as long as he can, and as he breathes out, he focuses, _pushes_. With a rush, Sam's body slumps, head coming dangerously close to the line of the pentagram. He knows this, can see it, because all of a sudden he is looking at himself, staring from above at the way his hair is spread out on the grass. 

Ignoring, for now, the fact that he possesses a demon strong enough to leave his body, Sam turns and kicks, sailing upwards above the tree-line and looking out around him. This part of Mississippi is flat, dotted over with trees; he can see for miles. Everything is in black-and-white, though, like some southern take on an Ansel Adams photograph. Sam's eyes narrow -- even though he's sure he doesn't _have_ eyes like this -- and then catch a glimpse of colour far away. Without a second thought, he moves for it. 

Sam feels like he's swimming through the air, impressions of buildings and trees wavering in his vision as he forces himself outwards, spiralling like a cloud toward the closest _thing_ that seems as if it might hold him. 

It's not like taking dreamroot, not like falling asleep and being somewhere else an instant later. Sam can feel his body, knows exactly where it is and how far away from it he is. 

A ringing of bells, clustered far away, distracts him, sends a wave of pain through Sam's projection. He winces, almost loses his focus, but then he sees again that haze of colour and _pushes_.

\--

Vetis looks up, frowning, then stumbles, the body she's in caught short of breath. She's about to look around but then she realises: there is someone else in this body with her. Carefully, all too carefully, she seeps into every part of the host-body that she can, until her eyes are glowing black and her awareness extends to every nerve, every skin cell, every rise and fall of her chest. 

She pokes and prods, searches out the places where she is thin and the host is struggling, then recoils in shock. 

"Prince?" she says. "My prince, is that. Is it _you_?" 

Silence, and then that presence inside the host starts laughing, that or crying, Vetis can't tell. One or the other, perhaps both, but her prince does not cry. Her prince is strong and still clings to his humanity, despite the queen's best efforts, despite the knowledge he has gained from the princess, despite everything that Vetis has tried to teach him. 

In spite of Vetis' misgivings and doubts, and the queen's impatience, and the loss that the princess carries around like it's a piece of what she is, the prince is here. Vetis' prince is _here_ , sharing a human with her. 

Vetis relaxes, then smiles, then starts to laugh. 

The prince might yet be human, but he is demon where it counts. 

\--

Sam pours out of Vetis' host as if he's steam bursting forth from a boiling kettle, propelled by need and soaring on a wave of laughter. He spins in the air, searches out his body but gets distracted by a riotous splotch of colour to the south. Drawn, almost against his will, Sam seeks out the colour and then _pushes_ again, sliding into a body that doesn't belong to him, one that doesn't belong to the demon riding it, either. 

\--

Sonneillon feels the invasion almost instantly but is slow to act, content for now to wait. He knows that only the strongest of demons are able to cohabit within a host; he is not strong but the other demon must be, to pour into the spaces this human offers without pushing Sonneillon out. 

Sonneillon waits, but he is a demon and he has never been the most patient, not unless there is a person to corrupt or a prince to torment. He feels startlement from the other demon and crowds backwards into a tight, compressed shape, giving the other demon use of the host's body before pressing a question forward, a matter of simple curiosity. 

" _I_ am the prince, Sonneillon," the host says. 

This should not be possible. Sonneillon has never heard of a human-tied demon possessing this gift before; he is not the oldest of demons but Sonneillon has existed since nearly the beginning. He wonders how this is possible, especially when the prince refuses to give up his humanity and the physicality of his body. 

The host sighs, reaches up to feel a collar that is not there. "I don't know, Sonneillon."

With that, the prince recedes, leaving Sonneillon alone in the host. 

\--

Sam leaves Sonneillon much slower than he left Vetis, as if his demon is gaining weight, density, a mass of its own. He's losing energy and fast; there's nothing he can do to resist the pull of his demon back to his body. 

Flowing back into his own body is a smooth process, one helped by familiarity and a sense of rightness, that this is where he belongs. Sam sits there with his eyes closed for a long few minutes, then opens them, takes in the burnt-out belladonna, the smoking oil. 

There's no way around it. He'll have to ask. 

\--

In hell, after Lilith, after Sycorax, after the queen's Magnificent Seven and the horsemen, the oldest and most dangerous of the demons stepped forward to eat Sam's flesh and swallow down his blood. Other demons, lesser demons, call them the Eumenides, the Kindly Ones, out of fear. Their names are legend: Eurynome, Adramalech, Kimaris, and others, eight in all, archdukes of the first eight circles of hell. Sam knows them well, just as he knows all demons thanks to the communion, but he would almost rather call Lilith again than ask questions of the eight Eumenides. 

Almost. 

He considers his options as he and Dean make their way around the Gulf and through Texas, hunting whatever they come across without pattern or method. Dean spends more time thinking than cleaning his weapons, spends more time out of Sam's presence than in it. If it hadn't been for the dream he had of Wrath, Sam would be worried again, thrown back to his post-Miami state of mind with only a collar and a tenuous promise to draw strength from. 

The dream, though -- that changes things. So many things are changing; lines are disappearing, are being crossed, almost as soon as they've been drawn. 

Sam touches his collar and thinks. He could use the goblet to call Lilith again but she didn't answer his question before. There's no guarantee she'd answer this one. He can't _demand_ that she answer, not the queen, but he outranks all the other demons. Anything they know, they'd have to tell him. He just has to be sure he asks the right question in the right way.

The Eumenides will probably be the only ones to know the answers, though, and out of the eight, it will have to be Eurynome. Adramalech would require a sacrifice of children and Sam's travelled far away from his humanity but not _that_ far. Others require deaths, usually great numbers by gruesome means, Nicor likes natural disasters, and Kimaris hasn't come to earth for anything less than the systematic poisoning of entire cities -- small cities but cities nonetheless. Sam hates the idea of summoning Eurynome, what he'd have to go through, but he'll do it; it's the least of eight separate evils and he can put aside his distaste for answers he desperately needs. 

\--

On a normal day, a day like every day they don't spend hunting has become, Dean showers after their morning sex and leaves without a word as to his destination or how long he'll be. Sam, one hand clutched tight around his collar, watches through the window of their motel room as Dean gets into the Impala and leaves. 

This day is not like the others, though. He's decided to summon Eurynome, can't wait any longer. Sam takes a shower, scrubs himself raw, and stops short when he opens the shower curtain and sees Ruby sitting on the counter, arms crossed. 

"I could feel your intent halfway across the fucking country," she says, but only after giving Sam a thorough once-over. "If you're invoking one of hell's Eumenides, fine, but you aren't doing it without me here." 

"Proserpine," Sam starts to say, stepping out of the shower and reaching for the towel she's holding, water running down his forehead and into his eyes. 

Ruby bares her teeth at him, clutches the towel to her chest. "No," she says, almost a growl. "Not without me. Dean should be here, too, but I can understand why you'd do this without him. No Dean means you're stuck with me. There's no way I'm letting you do this alone."

Sam steps closer to her, fills in the space between her legs as she locks her feet around him, heels of her boots digging into the soft, fleshy skin where his ass and thighs meet. She lifts the towel, wipes his face, then reaches up and fits the curve of her palm to the slope of Sam's jaw. 

"Not without me," she says again, quiet. Sam holds her gaze, finally nods, and Ruby gives him a small smile. "I brought everything we'll need."

A wince and Sam eyes Ruby carefully before leaning over and opening the bathroom door. A snake in a cage, hissing at them, a bag holding what must be candles, herbs, chalk, and a jar of blood, and a woman, still alive, tied to a chair and gagged to keep from making too much noise. 

Sam sighs, says, "Ruby," as he looks back at his princess. 

She shrugs with one shoulder, presses the towel against Sam's chest. "You know just as well as I do what the ritual requires, Sam. Eurynome only enters unwilling, living hosts." Ruby's fingers trail down Sam's chest, stop just shy of his dick, and she adds, "She's pretty, at least." 

He takes another look at the woman: brown hair, long and tumbling in waves past her shoulders, full breasts, a line of drool running out from under the gag, a brilliant shiner on one eye . Her wrists are bleeding from rope abrasions. 

"You're not going to get mad at me, are you?" Ruby asks in a near-whisper, pinpricks of her nails so close to his cock, her body leaning towards Sam in clear offering. She doesn't care if he gets upset, would probably mock him for clinging so tightly to what morals he has left, even now, but she knows what the tone of voice does to him. 

No one else, Dean said, not even Ruby; Sam's been fighting his instincts, his nature, to obey the order ever since he willingly accepted Dean's collar. It's never been this hard, not even after Missoula and Sycorax's tender care. At least then he had Dean, _all_ of Dean, to help him. Without Dean's constant presence, without Dean's worry and need to be around Sam, Sam's body strains to hold Ruby close, to strip her and bury himself in her, to tear her apart and be torn apart by her in turn, and he wants to, he wants to with everything inside of him. 

Gritting his teeth, Sam steps backwards, uses the towel to dry off quickly before putting on his jeans. Ruby watches him, watches every movement he makes, and gives breath to a growl of disappointment as he ignores his half-hard dick to zip up his jeans. 

"The longer and harder you fight," she says, "the harder you'll crash. You do know that, right?" 

Sam holds her gaze for a long moment, then crowds around her, kissing her, biting his way into her mouth and disregarding the noises she makes, the blood that's smearing and spattering across their faces. She scratches his chest, draws blood, bites his tongue and digs the heels of her boots into his ass. Sam has a hand tangled in her hair and he yanks, hard, when her hands start moving towards his zipper. 

"Dean's," he tells her, scraping his teeth down her neck, feeling the paper-thin skin give way under his incisors. "No one but Dean." 

Ruby bares blood-covered teeth at him, one hand grabbing his crotch. Sam can't help the thrust of his hips, can't help the way his blood boils and sings inside of him, but he lets go of Ruby, turns away and stalks out of the bathroom, sits on the edge of the bed as his skin knits back together and his heartbeat calms down. 

"He's going to have to learn to share," Ruby says, boot-heels clicking on the tile floor as she gets down off of the counter, crosses the room to stare at the woman tied to the chair. She doesn't look at Sam, doesn't hesitate as she walks past him. "I hope he knows that."

\--

The woman watches them with wide and plaintive eyes, has since Sam threw open the bathroom door. She's terrified, pulse in her throat jumping and racing hummingbird-fast. Sam wishes he could reassure her but they're calling Eurynome to her body; there's no guarantee she'll end up in one piece when this is done, forget promising she'll still be alive. 

Instead, he ignores her. As Ruby pushes the furniture out of the way and draws a huge pentagram on the floor with a mixture of blood and chalk, Sam draws out a circle around the woman's chair. He writes runes on the outside of the circle, runes that mirror the ones Ruby's tracing out in reverse in the spaces between the pentagram's points. Once he's done with the runes, Sam closes them in another circle and looks at the woman, tries to reach across what he's just drawn but can't. No other recourse, Sam just gives her a sad smile and says, "You won't remember much, I promise." 

He turns his back on the woman, eyes the sigil that Ruby's drawn, takes note of the candles at each point, can smell the mint and pepper that Ruby's scattered over the floor. 

"All that's left is the snake," Ruby says. 

The cage is inside of the pentagram, as is Ruby. One more look at the woman, at the locked door, and Sam steps inside as well, sits down on the floor next to his princess, their bodies just fitting into the confines of the symbol. He lifts the cage, takes the snake out and throws the cage behind him, doesn't care where it lands. 

Sam stares at the snake, takes a deep breath. He doesn't like the thought of Eurynome on the surface but half-hopes the demon will ask to be sent back to hell once their conversation is done. Their conversation. Hopefully it'll be worth this. 

With a final look at Ruby, who seems just as apprehensive, if not more so, Sam picks up the knife and slices the snake's head off. His hand is steady as he slices the snake's skin from cloaca to throat, peels the skin and cuts away the membrane. A grimace and Sam uses the knife to carve the heart and intestines into pieces. 

He offers Ruby a piece of the heart with both hands; she nods and he feeds it to her, eyes caught on the flash of her teeth. As she swallows, the runes around the edges of the pentagram shimmer and click into place, the scent of hellfire filling Sam's nostrils. Sam lifts a piece of heart to his mouth, eyes it before opening his mouth and chewing mechanically, swallowing down cold flesh with the taste of vomit in the back of his throat. 

Next to him, Ruby picks up a chunk of the intestine and offers it to him. Sam's stomach churns and he can't help it as his nose wrinkles, but he leans down so she can place the slice directly on his tongue. He swallows, almost without chewing, and sways, dizzy, as the candles light themselves, all at once, and the room heats up past boiling. 

The woman's screaming behind her gag now, fighting the ropes and getting nowhere, achieving nothing but more pain as they dig into her wrists and ankles, draw fresh blood. Sam spares her a glance, then looks at Ruby. She takes a deep breath and offers Sam her hand. 

Twining his fingers in with hers, Sam breathes in. He focuses on his barriers and, as he breathes out, drops them all. Power swirls around the room, shaking the furniture, rattling the door. The mirror in the bathroom explodes even as Sam hears bells ringing far away, a ringing that turns to a whine and disappears under the sheer breadth and depth of his power combining with Ruby's.

He looks back at the woman and says, "Eurynome. We've made a proper offering and found an unwilling sacrifice. Your prince and princess summon you. Hear us now. Come _now_ , if you will." 

The lights flicker, then shatter, candle-flames leaping and twining as they reach almost to the ceiling, bathing the room in an unnatural light. 

The woman throws her head back, muscles taut and straining. Sam holds his breath, feels Ruby's hand clutching his tight, so tightly it's cutting off feeling. The woman isn't breathing, caught on the edge of a powerful possession. Sam feels a cloud of heaviness forming in front of them, deep and dark and with the oily tinge of a demon; it gathers tighter and denser until his ears are popping with the pressure. 

Sam glances at Ruby, sees her leaning forward, watching with narrowed eyes. Sam drinks in the sight of her face, the feel of her skin against his, for the brief moment that everything is hanging in balance. 

The woman stops screaming as the demon surrounds her and soaks into her skin. Her body shudders and spasms for what feels like forever, then relaxes, chest heaving as she catches her breath. When she's done, back to normal, the ropes and gag disintegrate in a flash of smoke and she opens her eyes. 

Eurynome, like the other seven Eumenides, has eyes the colour of a brilliant lapis lazuli. 

The demon smiles, nodding at Sam and Ruby before turning her attention to the body she's in. She traces the abrasions on her wrists, hums as she cracks her neck, gingerly touches the black eye, runs her hands over her breasts and down her stomach, across her thighs. 

"An unwilling, yet living, host," she says, voice rasping, one hand lightly stroking her throat. When she talks next, the rasp is gone, voice healed from the woman's screams. "And a proper ritual. You gave me the choice of answering, prince, and so I came. After all, curiosity is no stranger to those of us who rule, is it." Sam ducks his head to hide a smile but knows Eurynome sees it regardless. "Not that it isn't fun to be on the surface," Eurynome goes on, "but tell me. Why I am here?" 

"Curiosity," Sam replies. "Nothing more." He stands, pulls Ruby up and doesn't begrudge the way she crowds close to him, practically breathing the same air. 

Eurynome stands, stretches. Her hijacked body undulates in a way that isn't human, all serpentine grace and balletic precision. Sam watches, eyes caught on the locks between demon and human, memory stuck on the way Eurynome slunk to his body, hanging from a cross of yew, and let her tongue dart out to taste his skin before she partook of his flesh and blood. 

"Curiosity," she murmurs. "Ah, yes. The queen warned us about your curiosity. How, my prince, am I meant to assuage it?" Any other level of demon and Ruby would have snapped by now; that she hasn't, that she's waiting and watching, body thrumming with wary anticipation, has Sam focused and intent on Eurynome. He opens his mouth but Eurynome interrupts and asks, "Where is your consort, prince?" 

"Dean's out," Sam says, eyes narrowed. "Why?" 

Eurynome looks down at the double circle and the band of runes. They aren't meant to hold her in and so they don't as she steps over them, halting at the edge of the pentagram Ruby and Sam are standing in. The pentagram wasn't meant to hold her out; it doesn't.

"That curiosity again," Eurynome purrs, stretching out her arm and placing her hand on Sam's bare chest for a moment before letting it slide down and off. "I'm sure I meant nothing by it, prince. Now, shall we get down to business? What are you willing to offer me in exchange for answers to your questions?" 

Ruby snarls, says, "He doesn't need to offer you _anything_. He's your fucking prince, Eurynome, or have you forgotten?"

Eurynome looks at Ruby, careful and considering. "I have not forgotten, Proserpine. I am merely adhering to our traditions. Perhaps you have forgotten them, being so long on the surface." 

Sam tightens his hold on Ruby's hands, digging his nails into her skin to keep her from responding. The glare she turns on him is powerful, one of the worst she's given him in recent memory, and yet Sam merely looks at her with a raised eyebrow. 

They have a silent conversation and, eventually, Ruby sighs, takes her hand out of Sam's and crosses her arms, glaring at Sam and the Eumenide both. Sam tucks a strand of Ruby's hair behind her ear, then turns to Eurynome and holds out his hands. 

"What do you request, Eurynome?" he asks. "If you answer my questions to my satisfaction, then I'll give you what you want, as long as it's within my ability." 

Eurynome grins, takes Sam's hands, and pulls him out of the pentagram. "A princely offer," she murmurs, pressing her body against his, looking up into his eyes. "I expected nothing less from you." Sam holds Eurynome's gaze, feels the way her demon's rubbing against him, seeking out weak spots to blend and merge with; Ruby has covered all of those, though, with her presence. "Very well," she says, stepping back, head tilted to one side as a coy, conniving smile crosses her lips. "I ask this: that every question I answer give me one strike of the whip on your back, and that my responding to your summons reward me with the sight of the prince and princess, joined together." 

Sam freezes. He knows Ruby's paused as well, caught off-guard by Eurynome's request. The whipping, fine, Sam has no problem with that, and he would've fucked Eurynome if she asked for it. He has no lasting connection to her and sex, it would've been nothing more than a physical act, cold and emotionless bartering. She wants to watch him with _Ruby_ , though. 

He wants to agree, wants to so badly, for the sake of answers and Ruby both, but he swore to _Dean_ and that's not a promise he can break. 

"The first time Dean fucked you," Ruby says, quietly, "what did he ask you, Sam?" 

_Never in front of me. Never when we're together. Never of your own free will._ Three rules Sam followed as best he could, until the time Ruby whipped him and shoved a whip up his ass while Dean watched. After the collar, though, Dean laid down new rules, rules that Sam hasn't broken no matter how sorely he's been tempted. 

"It's not important," Sam says, one hand rising to stroke the collar around his neck. "He's made new rules since then; you know that and so does Lilith." Sam glances at Ruby, sees her watching him, then turns back to Eurynome. "You spoke with the queen. What did she tell you, Eurynome?" 

The Eumenide smiles. "The questions you ask, prince. If I know the answers, I am allowed to give them, and give them in full, provided you first join demon _and_ body with the princess. You have already joined demons; are not the answers I can offer worth whatever upset your consort might experience?" 

Sam narrows his eyes. "Did the queen tell everyone the same thing, or just you?" Eurynome says nothing. Sam thinks, balances what he knows of Lilith with what he knows of himself, and then says, "She knew it would be you and not any of the others. She only told you. If I was willing to summon Kimaris or Nicor, that would be different." 

Eurynome inclines her head, waiting.

Honouring his promise to Dean or getting answers -- it doesn't seem fair that he can't do both. Which does he want more, especially when getting his answers means he gets something else he's been craving for months? Sam doesn't even have to think to remember what it feels like, fucking Ruby. His cock twitches and Sam clenches his fists, digging his nails into his palms. Lilith always manipulates everything around him and she knows him well, knows how much he yearns for Ruby and how hard it's been to obey Dean's one rule in spite of his desires. 

"'Those who restrain desire," Eurynome murmurs, "'do so because theirs is weak enough to be restrained.' Is yours weak, prince?"

"Perhaps I desire something else more," Sam replies, eyeing the Eumenide. 

Eurynome smiles. "And who will tell the Consort if you do this? I will be back in hell, prince, and you have silenced Proserpine in your brother's presence before."

Sam grimaces. "Dean'll know. He always does." 

"You think he'll care?" Eurynome asks next. "He has changed, as have you." 

Sam opens his mouth to answer but then shuts it, hard and fast enough that his teeth clack. Dean _has_ changed; the dream he had of Dean and Wrath is proof enough. He _felt_ Wrath and Lust and Pride all over Dean's soul; has seen something growing and moving in Dean's eyes. 

"He's changed, yes," Ruby says, quietly from behind Sam, "but not that much. Not in that way." Sam turns to Ruby, and she lifts one shoulder, shrugs. "Do you think it'd be worth it, Sam? I don't think Dean would." 

Indecision floods through Sam's body, mind moving slow enough that it might as well be stopped. He toys with the idea of calling Dean, framing the question in subtle terms or blunt ones, but knows he can't, not in front of Eurynome. He can't show weakness like that. He's showing enough as it is. 

"I don't agree to this," Ruby says, stepping forward. Sam stares at her. "My agreement, that this would be a worthy reward, would also be needed. I don't agree. Pick something else." 

Sam narrows his eyes, knows exactly what Ruby's doing. He doesn't know _why_ , though. 

"With all due respect, princess," Eurynome says, "this choice is not yours." 

Ruby growls under her breath but doesn't argue. Neither of them can, not when this is Lilith's price. 

Choice. It all comes down to choice, as it always does with hell, as it always will with the laws Sam's changing, creating anew. 

"It's not worth it," he finally says. Ruby, next to him, presses against him and says his name, starts to speak. Sam shakes his head and she falters, falls silent. "No, Eurynome. My questions can wait. After all," he adds, twisted smile on his face, "I have a long time left to find the answers." 

"Very well," Eurynome says. "May I offer some advice, prince? And ask a boon?"

Sam's curiosity will be the death of him someday, he's sure, but he still says, "Yes."

"Whitman," Eurynome says. "Your quintessential American poet. I think you should read him. ''There was a child went forth;' start with that one." She smiles at him, a sly, measuring expression, then inclines her head. "My request. I wish a kiss, prince. Just a kiss."

Sam knows full and well that there's no such thing as _just_ a kiss when it comes to demons but he still nods and closes the distance between them. Eurynome tilts her head up and Sam wraps one hand around the back of her neck, the other cupping the curve of her cheek and holding her steady. 

She parts her lips and Sam slides his lips against hers, opens his mouth and lets her tongue seek out his, sharing air and saliva. She bites him, teasing little nips, and Sam pulls her closer until there's no air between their bodies. Her demon purrs, pressing against him in a wordless plea, and Sam opens himself up to her, lets Eurynome pour inside of him, curl around him in wisps of an ancient deepness that leaves him lightheaded. 

Ruby, behind him, makes a noise that Sam can't parse. Still, it tears him away from Eurynome to turn and look at her. She raises an eyebrow and Sam can _feel_ jealousy radiate outward from her body. 

"Finish it, prince," Eurynome whispers, a throaty sound that does nothing for Sam, not when Ruby is giving him that look and Dean's collar is tight around his neck. 

Sam steps back, bends down to the floor, studies the innards of the snake leftover and growing ripe in the hellfire-heated air. He eyes the kidneys, the stomach, finally digs in and rips off a piece of the liver. The cold organ is slippery in his hands as he stands, lifts the liver to Eurynome's lips. "This is my body," he says, "cut open and split apart for you. Take, eat, in remembrance of me."

"You honour me," Eurynome says, after a moment. She doesn't move otherwise, watching Sam. "Some say the liver represents the darkest passions, the bloody ones, prince, even an attachment to life itself. Is that the gift you offer me?"

With a wry smile, with Ruby stock-still behind him, Sam replies, "I know what I'm doing, Eurynome." 

The Eumenide gazes at Sam for a long moment, as time stretches out and turns infinite. Heat inundates the room as the air fills with a power greater than the sum of its inhabitants. Only when Sam's skin is turning red with burns does Eurynome move. 

"As Prometheus gave of himself, so I take your offering and promise in return famine, and then toil, and then disease, strife, wounds, and ghastly death unseen before," Eurynome says. She opens her mouth and takes the snake liver from Sam's hands with her teeth, blood-drenched in the candle-light. 

She chews and swallows, then smiles at Sam and Ruby in parting. Her skin turns black, then smoke starts oozing from her pores as Eurynome leaves the host and hovers mid-air, clearly waiting. The host tumbles to the ground, skin charred and cracked.

With no pause, Sam reaches out, rips open the veil between earth and hell, and shudders as the feel of Lilith seeps through the crack, heady and rich. Eurynome travels back to hell and Sam's hand wavers before he ties up the loose ends, mind sending a silent greeting to his queen and her right hand. 

"You gave her liver. And then you hesitated," Ruby says, voice blank. "Sam. You opened yourself up to her and then you fed her _liver_. From your own hand. And you _hesitated_."

"It's nothing," he says, replying to all of Ruby's implied questions in one fell swoop of a non-answer. His eyes are still fixed on the space he tore apart, as if it might open up again, show him hell. He's not sure if he wants it to or if he's afraid of the possibility. He has no idea how he'd react. "Just difficult. First time I did it."

Ruby doesn't say anything, not until Sam finally turns and looks at her. "Don't lie to me," she says. "You can lie to everyone else, I don't give a fuck, but don't you _dare_ lie to me." She waits for Sam to nod, then adds, so quietly he can barely hear her, "And I don't just mean sending Eurynome back to hell. You hesitated at her offer. Was it because you wanted answers or because you wanted _me_?" 

Sam swallows, holds her gaze. "Both. More you, though." 

Ruby gives him a sad smile, reaches out and touches a finger to her amulet, the one on the bracelet around his wrist. It heats up and burns his skin, branding him with her sigil. She takes her hand back and they both stand there, watching as his skin heals and every outward sign of her is gone from his body. 

"Things change," Ruby murmurs, still looking at Sam's wrist. "Sometimes not for the best." She looks up, meeting his eyes, her own flooded over with black. 

There's nothing Sam can say to that. He stands there, silent, and watches as she leaves. As soon as the door closes behind her, the candles go out. He's left alone in the darkness, a dead body at his feet. 

\--

Sam cleans up the room as best he can, opens the windows to help the smell of blood and candles dissipate. Dean comes back that night, as Sam's standing in the bathroom and studying himself in the mirror, everything around him floating. 

"Dude," Dean says, slamming the door closed. Sam looks at his brother, sees that Dean's cheeks are flushed, the skin under his eyebrows red the way they get when they fuck. "You gonna tighten that up?" 

Before Sam can answer, Dean is kissing him, pressing him hard against the counter and breaking his fingers against the unyielding pressure of the bathroom counter. Sam gasps and Dean's tongue invades Sam's mouth, teeth digging into Sam's lips. Sam can't think, can't do anything but spin out of control, and only when he realises that does he start to right himself, to tighten his barriers. 

Just as the last one's going back up, as Dean's stepping back and looking at Sam with something that might be horror but could easily be read as want, does Sam understand. Dean's eyes are dark, still green but darker; he tastes of Lust and something else, something that is intrinsically Dean. A combination of the two, Lust turned to Dean, made into Dean's, and Sam's eyes grow wide as he moves away from his brother, hands and mouth healing faster than he can get away. 

"You weren't with her," Sam half asks, walking backwards out of the bathroom. He knows this because as much as Dean tastes of Lust, he doesn't _smell_ of her. He hasn't been in her presence."What. Dean, you weren't. _What are you doing?_ "

Dean's eyes narrow and Sam watches as his brother's hands curl into fists. "What I have to," Dean snarls. "What I _want_ to. Whatever it takes. You gonna tell me to stop?" 

Sam hits the bed, sits down with a thunk as he stares at Dean. The light in the bathroom is on, illuminating the angles and planes of Dean's face, but Sam can see something else, something coiling around Dean like a serpent might, sleek and deadly, sly and deceptive.

He's never been more afraid in his life. He has never been this turned on before. 

Sam opens his mouth to speak, has to swallow and lick his lips first, his throat gone dry and sandpaper-rough. "Come here," he says. Whatever is wrapped around Dean, it obeys the command. Dean stays where he is. Sam watches, fascinated, as Dean's jaw clenches and unclenches once, twice, three times. "Dean," he says, softer. "Please. Come here?" 

Dean moves woodenly, as if he's not sure what kind of reception he's going to get. He's angry, Sam can tell, but cautious as well, defiance written in every line of his body. Dean stops four steps away and Sam looks up at his brother, raises an eyebrow. Dean sighs, takes one step, then another, until he's standing between Sam's legs. 

"I'm sorry," Sam says. His hands rise, almost unbidden, and start to work at the button on Dean's jeans, then the zipper, tugging the jeans down and then the underwear. Sam leans forward, inhales, and closes his eyes. "Fuck me," Sam says. "Please. However you want." 

A long moment, and then Dean says, "Let down your barriers. All of them. Now." 

Sam frowns and Dean starts to step backwards. Sam scrambles, tugs Dean back, says, "Yeah, Dean, okay," and lets each one drop in quick succession. By the time Sam's light-headed from the release of pressure, Dean has him pinned to the mattress and is fucking into him with hard, fast strokes. 

Sam comes with his brother's name on his lips and his brother's blood smeared all over his skin. He thinks he hears Dean saying, "Prince," but he's not entirely sure. 

He hopes he's wrong.

\--

Sam wakes up in the morning, Dean curled around him, the two of them stuck together with sweat and come and blood and heat. It takes Sam a few minutes to remember that he never put his barriers up the night before and he spreads his mind out, wide and thin. He can feel Ruby turn to him, wherever she is, some foreign emotion along the edge of her scent, can feel Caésinha and Vetis waiting, like they have been for hours, can feel _all_ of the demons on the surface waiting for something. 

He sends them all a wave of himself, the way he feels now -- aching, well-fucked, sleepily content -- and starts to re-weave the barriers. 

"Don't," Dean murmurs, tightening his hold even as he wraps one finger around Sam's collar and tugs. Sam turns, careful, and grins, silly and light-headed from lack of air, when he sees Dean's forehead furrowed, eyes still closed, sleep crusted at the corners. "Leave 'em down. A'least one. The one that lets them know where you are, how you feel." 

Sam won't question it. Part of him wants to but another part, the greater part, doesn't. He pulls up his barriers, all but one, and curls into Dean. There's a whine in the distance, one that rings and echoes in his ears. Sam frowns, shakes his head, and ignores the whine until it dies down and he falls back asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

The whine comes and goes for a few weeks, sometimes echoing with the ringing of bells, sometimes a deep throbbing that reminds Sam of heartbeats, before it turns into something else. Sam feels it as an itch to his back, the place between his shoulder-blades where Sycorax once cut through skin and muscle to reach in and pull out Sam's spine. 

It grows, this feeling, for weeks and weeks, following him and Dean across the country and back again, through decreasing numbers of hunts and even more sporadic visits from Ruby, through the increasingly dark look in Dean's eyes and the need growing and pulsing under Sam's skin. The irritation strengthens, digs deep, skirts around the edge of pleasure to become a razor blade of pain against the back of Sam's eyelids. He can't find a name for it, can't find a reason, and the need to ask about it is pounding against the back of his teeth, trying to escape his mouth. 

He can't ask. Something inside of him won't let the words slip his lips. He thinks about asking Ruby every time he sees her but doesn't and thinks about using the Goblet to call Lilith but doesn't. He even debates summoning Eurynome again; without Ruby's presence, the Eumenide might answer his questions, especially if they aren't about him. 

Instead, Sam begs Dean to whip him more, cane him harder, as if breaking the skin might ease the pain, give it a path to escape his body and leave him alone. 

It doesn't work. Nothing seems to work. It just grows and grows and grows until Sam goes to bed every night with the fear of passing out, lips and tongue bitten raw and bloody, body covered in bruises and bitemarks and places where Dean has taken a knife of prayer to him and cut him deep. 

He heals as he sleeps but the pain is still there, new muscle memory and skin sensitivity.

\--

One night, halfway between Phoenix and Flagstaff in a place where hardly anyone lives, Dean sits down to take off his shoes and falls asleep minutes later. It's not natural but it isn't _super_ natural, so Sam wards the room, brushes his teeth, and crawls in bed as well. Sam doesn't move, bones and muscles screaming in agony, but neither does he sleep, too distracted by the thrum of some distant pain coming closer. This is the closest it's ever come before and Sam wants to face it on his feet. He lifts his arm, sets his teeth into the underside of his forearm, and bites down when he stands to keep any noise or hint of pain from waking Dean. 

Every step he bites deeper until blood is dripping onto the floor and his teeth are almost meeting through flesh. Sam walks outside, breathes deep through his nose and focuses on the whine he can hear in the back of his head. 

He's not sure how long he's outside before he realises that the noise, it's not in his head anymore. All of the glass in his vicinity starts to vibrate and Sam throws out a wave of himself to surround his brother, keep Dean safe in a cocoon of demonic power. It's easier than it has been before; whatever Dean is doing has changed Dean enough for that. 

The glass shudders then shatters, all of it, even the Impala's windows and mirrors. In the noise, in the high-pitched whine, Sam can hear words. 

"Prince," he hears. "Prince, you must _listen_." 

Sam frowns, locks his knees as the whine crescendoes again and threatens to knock him over. His vision blacks out for a moment and then, when he opens his eyes, a man is standing in front of him. 

No. No, it's not a man. 

Not a demon, either, but something that recognises him as prince, something that feels heavier, more dense than a demon, yet lighter as well, holding a more tenuous connection to earth and its vessel than any of Sam's demons. Sam feels around the edges of this, this _thing_ and then takes two steps back, the pain in his body all but forgotten. 

"Pure," he says. Sam's eyes are wide. He never thought he'd see one but, apparently, this creature in front of him is everything he always longed to see, everything he will never be. " _Holy_. Who are you?" 

"Castiel," the vessel says. 

Sam blinks, says, "Okay. Castiel. Yeah. I know that name but you can't be what I. _What_ are you?"

"I am an angel of the Lord," it says. "I am the one who has been trying to contact you for months now. We must talk, Prince."

"You call me Prince," Sam says. "Why?" 

Castiel tilts the vessel's head to one side. "Is that not what you are? Prince of Hell, Son of Azazel, Chosen of Lilith, Damned and Condemned. You were crucified and crowned; you died and ascended to earth. All know of you, Samuel Winchester. We watched as you fell and mourned your passing to darkness."

A thrill runs through Sam's body, hearing that, a thrill and then a sick sense of nausea. Heaven exists and it _knows_ him, who and what he is. Heaven exists but it _watched_ , didn't lift a finger to help Dean, ignored all of Sam's prayers and would have let his brother go to hell in his place. 

Sam clenches his hands into fists and lets the barriers around his power fade and disappear. The host doesn't look perturbed but Sam can feel Castiel's struggle to hold the human. Sam steps closer, sees tiny lines form around the human's eyes as the angel's focus drops away from Sam and narrows in order to not lose the possession. 

"Am I really that powerful?" Sam asks, voice quiet as he takes another step closer, watching the host's lips part. "To be pushing you away from the human without even trying?" 

"Certain people," Castiel says, "can perceive my true visage, hear my true voice. It weakens my link with the vessel. Please, Prince, I beg of you: contain yourself so that I might deliver my message." 

Sam stares, tries to guess what type of message an angel might have. The human's in pain, though, and Sam might be a demon but he remembers being possessed and the split sense of self it gave him for so long. He nods, once, and says, "For your host's sake." Sam puts up his barriers, all but one, and can see the angel settle back into the human, twine closer to the human's soul. "A willed possession?" Sam half-asks, recognising the link as something similar to that between demons and witches. 

"He asked for this," Castiel says. The angel peers out of the human's eyes and Sam can feel the human retreat, body voluntarily given over to Castiel and whatever the angel desires. "Prayed for this, on hands and knees, devout and with full faith. Tell me, Prince of Hell: do you love your brother?" 

"I thought you said you'd been watching me," Sam says in reply, eyes narrowed. 

Castiel lifts his hand; Sam watches carefully, ready to react, but the angel merely brushes his fingertips along Sam's jaw. Sam relaxes slightly as the burn manifests on his skin, sinking into a physical pain he can reach up and _touch_ , so different from the aches Castiel has provoked inside of his body for weeks now. Sam settles but the angel hisses, jerks back his hand and cradles his fingers carefully in his other palm. 

"We have," Castiel says, before looking up, eyes meeting Sam's, hand dropping to his side, forgotten. Sam's eyes meet Castiel's, then look down. Castiel's hand is healed. So is Sam's jaw. "But we do not always understand your choices. We cannot, since you have returned from the pit." 

Sam studies the angel, searches Castiel's eyes. "I do love him," he says, plain and simple and true. "I love him more than anything else in the world. Or apart from it," he adds, as if there's nothing more to it. 

Castiel stares, says, "Hell does not know love. It cannot by virtue of its creation."

Thinking of what Ruby said, months ago, Sam can only smile and shrug with one shoulder. "I think you underestimate your enemies. Why are you here?" 

"I have come to ask that you stop your brother from the path he is on," Castiel replies, taking a step closer. The angel's nostrils flare as if he can smell sulfur or fire, brimstone. 

Sam wants to laugh at this angel, how seriously Castiel seems to take himself and how ridiculous Castiel's request is. For so long, Sam believed. Sam _longed_ for heaven to be real, argued with Dean for _years_ about angels being real, and now, far too late, he finds out he was right. It's small consolation in the shadow of everything that's happened since Dean made his deal. 

"Dean's a big boy," Sam says. "He can make his own decisions. You want him to stop whatever it is he's doing, you have to talk to him." Castiel looks as if he's making a move for the motel door; Sam lets down another of his barriers, waits for the angel to look back at him before saying, "He's asleep. It can wait until morning." 

The angel hesitates, says, "Are you sure of that, Samuel? Surely you, more than anyone, know how often humanity dances upon the razor-edge of irreversible decisions."

Sam scowls, then pauses, tilts his head, and says, "I think you should cut Dean a little slack, Castiel. You've never had problems waiting. How long did your garrison hold back during the rebellion? Long enough for Michael to send Jibril, in case you all decided to fall along with Lucifer. And if you had waited only an hour more, then perhaps the battle would have been decided the other way." 

Castiel doesn't move. His eyes flash but he doesn't say or do anything to refute Sam, merely says, "Dean would do anything for you. He chose hell for your sake." 

Sam's smile, this time, is hard. "The feeling's mutual."

"Then why will you not tell him to stop what he is doing?" Castiel asks. The way the angel's brow furrows, Castiel might even be serious. Sam wants to laugh. "He is doing this for you, Samuel. For the purposes of hell. You sacrificed yourself and your chance at redemption to keep him from hell and now you are willing to let him throw himself there?"

"He's doing it for himself, mostly, and me, maybe, but I'm not hell," Sam argues back. "He's not doing it for hell's purposes. If anything, he's fucking everything up. You said it yourself, hell doesn't know love. Well, it didn't. Whatever Dean's doing is changing things, fine. _Things change_. They _have_ to. And demons are more fluid than you will ever give us credit for." 

Castiel raises an eyebrow. "Us?" he asks, echoing Sam. "You count yourself among them, then?"

Sam sneers. "Isn't that where you've put me? Isn't that what you said before, damned and condemned?"

"There is always time to ask forgiveness," Castiel says, suddenly quiet. "Always time, Samuel. All you have to do is turn your back on." 

"No," Sam says, cutting Castiel off. He shakes his head, glares at the angel. "I won't _ever_ turn my back on them. Where were you when Azazel killed my mother, huh? Where was God when Dean made a deal for me? I was tainted, I knew that, I had no problem giving myself up for Dean, but _he_ was innocent. When the hounds came, where was your precious _God_?" 

Sam's right up in Castiel's face, toe-to-toe with the angel. He's furious, knows he's letting power loose that Castiel's visibly reacting to, demonic power battering against the angel along with wrath and hatred. 

"We could not interfere," Castiel says, voice barely louder than a whisper. "Not until Dean was taken. We had orders, after that, to drag him out." 

"The demons made a deal with me," Sam hisses. "They saved Dean. They broke me down but _they put me back together_. What would you have done? Dragged Dean out after decades? Centuries? Tossed him back on earth a shadow of himself? Hell would've _killed_ him and you would've _watched_ , just like you watched us before. Are we too tainted to help or do you need us broken before we're any good?" 

Castiel swallows, grimaces and looks to the side. "I am not here to discuss what is in the past, Samuel." He glances back at Sam and adds, "Though I am sorry for it." 

Sam's hands curl, nails digging into his palms so hard they break against his skin, pieces falling to the ground along with blood. "Sorry," Sam says, just as quietly as Castiel had spoken. "Sorry isn't good enough. If you want to talk to Dean, fine. Right now, go away." Castiel opens his mouth and Sam shakes his head. "Just go." 

The angel doesn't have to reach very far to lift a hand to Sam's face. He cups the curve of Sam's cheek and they both stand there for a moment, aware of the burn but not reacting to it, before Castiel disappears in the rushing noise of feathers. 

Sam stands outside, by himself, for a long time. 

\--

Dean's the one who finds him, padding out of the motel room as the sun's bleeding into the sky, pyjama bottoms slung low on his hips. Sam can tell the instant Dean's really awake; his brother stops walking, abruptly, and starts swearing. "The fuck happened?" Dean asks, then rushes over to the Impala, hands stroking along the side of the empty windshield. Dean curses again, under his breath, then pauses, turns slowly to look at Sam. 

Sam shivers as Dean's eyes trace every visible inch of his body, looking for something. Sam doesn't know what, exactly, Dean expects to see, not until Dean asks, "Are you okay?" 

"Yeah," Sam says, then shrugs. "I always am." He looks down at his hands, gently scrapes his nails down the clean skin of his palms, then touches the skin covering his cheek, the same arch that Castiel caressed. Sam doesn't look at Dean as he adds, "We need to talk." 

Dean snorts, mutters, "You think?" but when he takes Sam by the hand, his hand is warm and dry, careful as he leads Sam back inside, makes sure Sam gets into bed, covers him up. 

Sam's still too stuck on Castiel, on the mere _existence_ of the angel, much less his words, to fuss at Dean, to blunt the force of his response when Dean tells him to talk. "Angels are real," Sam says. "One of them came here last night. It's been following us for weeks. I thought it was something else, maybe one of the older demons, but it was Castiel. When he speaks, his voice can break glass. I'm sorry about the Impala." 

Dean blinks, sits there for a few minutes to try and digest everything Sam's just said and what goes along with it. Sam expects Dean's first words to be some crack about suing heaven for the damage but, instead, Dean asks, "You're all right? The angel didn't hurt you?" 

"No," Sam says, looking down at his hands, "I'm fine. He wanted to talk, said he had a message. I told him to come back later."

"What was the message?" Dean asks. "Is he gonna come back?" Dean waits for Sam to say something; when Sam doesn't, Dean says, "You said before that angels get involved at the worst time. What's going on?" 

Sam shifts, uneasy. He can't meet his brother's eyes. "His name is Castiel. He wants to talk to you. Or, I told him to." Dean asks why, what's going on, what the hell Sam's doing talking to an _angel_ , and Sam shrugs, a tight, tense gesture. "Whatever you're doing, he wants you to stop. But since I don't know what you're doing and I don't know why, I'm. That's your own decision. Not mine."

Dean looks at him, a long, weighted gaze that might as well be metal for the way it pierces into Sam. "You have guesses, though," Dean says. Sam doesn't say anything. "Why did the angel talk to you, Sam?"

"Castiel said," Sam starts to say, stops, swallows. "He said you were doing it for me and that you'd stop if I asked you to." Sam looks up, looks at Dean for the first time since he sat down. "I'm not going to. I'm not Dad or your boss or anyone that gets to tell you what to do. That's why he's coming back. I told him that he'd have to talk to you." 

The silence between them grows. It reminds Sam, a little, of the first few weeks after he came back from hell and Lilith, the way the quiet lingered around the both of them with its own tangible presence, heavy and suffocating. 

"I don't want to talk to any angel," Dean finally says, eyes flicking away. The air between them is tinged with the smell of Wrath. "And you know what I'm doing."

Sam shakes his head, says, "No, I don't." 

Dean smiles, a wry expression that complements the fatigue Sam's become used to seeing in his brother's eyes, the cant of Dean's shoulders. "Guesses, then," Dean says. "And you know my endgame. Do the angels?" 

"Sacrifice," Sam says. He leans forward, body cutting through the gulf of space between him and his brother, rests his forehead on Dean's shoulder. The way Dean's hand comes up and settles on Sam's neck, fingertips stroking the skin underneath the collar, is automatic but no less meaningful for the instant reaction. "I don't know. They thought I was making you, so maybe not. Maybe they just don't understand it. I don't think they understand free will." 

"Maybe," Dean says. He sounds unconvinced.

Sam closes his eyes, listens to the beat of his brother's heart, strong and steady. He can feel Wrath in Dean, Wrath and Lust and Envy, but something else as well, that something from before, dark and dangerous and growing, but not ready to let loose. 

Close, soon, but not yet. 

Sam sighs, presses closer to Dean, and tilts his head to one side as Dean's fingers dig in, as Dean's teeth find skin and tear. 

"I don't want to talk to any angel," Dean says, echoing his earlier words. "Is there a way to stop them? To hide from them?" 

"I'll find out," Sam says. 

Dean grins, lips moving against Sam's neck. They're sticky with blood, smear along Sam's skin and leave blood to dry, crack, and flake off. "Later," Dean murmurs, his other hand snaking between their two bodies, heel of his palm pressing down against Sam's dick. 

With a hum, eyes still closed, Sam lets Dean push him down onto the bed and start to undress him.

"What do you want, Sam?" Dean whispers, breath hot as it curls around Sam's ear. Sam shivers, opens his eyes and tries to focus on the ceiling rather than the way he wants to fall apart under Dean's hands. "Did that angel guilt you into a conscience? Do I need to remind you that you're mine? That you _chose_ to be mine?" 

Sam groans, arches as Dean's teeth dig into the skin above Sam's heart. "I know," Sam says, throat catching on the words as Dean finally gets them both naked and settles on top of him, dicks next to each other, both hard. "Dean, I know. I'm yours, always." 

There's a hint of something in the back of Dean's eyes; Sam opens his mouth to ask what it is but then Dean's pushing a finger inside of him and Sam can't think. 

" _Tibi se cor meum totum subjicit_ ," Dean murmurs. Sam's eyes widen at the words even as the flesh on his arms starts to smoke. " _In cruce latebat sola Deitas, at hic latet simul et humanitas_."

The prayer is all wrong, Dean picking and choosing lines, but his body recognises the power of them even as his mind's translating the words into English. 

"Dean," he says, but then one finger inside of him becomes two, and Dean's tongue laves the burnt patches of Sam's arms, skin already drawn tight from healing. "Dean, oh, _god_ , fuck me, please." 

"How do you want it?" Dean asks, pushing a third finger in. Sam keens, shakes his head, but Dean licks along Sam's jaw and says, "You have to tell me, Sam. Whatever you want but you have to _tell me_. " 

Sam pants, looks at his brother. Dean meets his eyes, one eyebrow raised even as he's still moving his fingers, stretching Sam wide. Dean's waiting, cautious, and Sam gets that Dean means it. _Anything_ he wants, Dean will do, even if that means Ruby, even if that means Lilith. 

"The angel scared you that bad?" Sam asks, has to fight for coherence because this, Dean crowding over him and inside of him and around him, it's enough to make him light-headed with need. "Dean." Dean starts to say something but Sam cuts him off. " _Dean_. I just want you." 

It's like they hang in limbo, the moment frozen in time, but then Dean smiles and the scent of Lust and Wrath and Gluttony seeps out of him, cocooning Sam. " _Mine_ ," Dean snarls, even though he's still smiling. " _Mine_." 

Dean moves, faster than Sam can comprehend, and then he's inside, fucking Sam deep enough and hard enough for it to hurt, praying at the same time, nails slicing Sam's skin open. The blood from Dean's stigmata mingles with the blood from Sam's scratches, soaking into the sheets and mattress; Sam doesn't care. All he can think about are angels and his brother, what Castiel said and the way that Dean's above him, prayers now interspersed with cursing, with blasphemy. 

Sam feels _evil_ for the first time he can remember, as if it's sunk deep into him and he's begun to embrace it, to live it. Even as he comes, Dean inside of him, he's terrified. 

It feels good.

\--

Dean finds the answer to Castiel's promised visit by mistake, a casual reference in one of their books as they're looking for something else. All it takes is a tattoo at the base of the spine, an ouroboros to invoke Kundalini and a pentacle in the middle, one from the _Lesser Key_. Dean makes a sketch and Sam can feel the power even on paper, so he nods and says it should work. 

They find a tattoo parlour in Chicago, a place that doesn't ask questions, and get it done right away, a small tattoo inked in a green that matches Sam's eyes. Dean doesn't make a sound when he's under the machine but, when they get back to the room, he fucks Sam with an accompaniment of prayers and filth tumbling from his lips. After they come, when they curl into one another, they fall asleep in sheets soaked with blood. 

\--

Sam dreams. 

\--

_Burn, entice, desire, thirst, crave, rape, want, need, demand, yearn, infatuate, beg, stalk, tempt --_

Lust turns away from the woman currently on her knees, sucking Lust's dick with mindless enthusiasm. Lust tilts the host's head to one side, listening as he pushes the woman away roughly. She cries out, tries to scrabble back to Lust, saying that she needs it, that she _wants_ it, _please_. 

"Shut up," Lust hisses, slapping the woman. "The princess is talking." 

"Please," the woman says, crawling forward on her knees, manicured nails chipping against the cement. "I'll do anything, please, I'll make it good for you, I swear." 

Lust looks down at the woman. "It's the _princess_ ," he says. Lust floods out of the host's mouth and sticks around long enough to press a little of her magnificence on the man. She streams through the air to answer the princess's summons; the sound of rutting fades away in the background.

\--

She hovers, finds the human that the princess has chosen for her, and seeps into the host. As soon as she's fully inside, Lust moves and drops to a knee in front of the princess, eyes pinned on the floor. "Forgive the delay," she says. 

The princess doesn't say anything; Lust doesn't squirm but she doesn't know why she's been summoned or how she may have upset the princess. She waits, and is finally rewarded when the princess says, "Stand, already. Fuck. I don't have time for this." 

Lust rises, inwardly purring at the feel of this host, the one the princess chose for her. The body is young and strong, tits heavy and cunt tight, and it's _glorious_. Still, it isn't enough to distract her from the demon in front of her, brows knit with worry and hands clenched into fists of anger. 

"How may I serve?" Lust asks, watching her princess with no little amount of trepidation. 

"You've been talking to Dean," the princess says. "Why?"

Lust frowns, feels the tight pull of skin across the host's face. "The consort summoned me," she says. "In the traditional manner. When he does so, I answer. Anything else, I stay away." 

The princess's eyes flick to Lust at her additional comment, barely quick enough for Lust to catch. "Yes," the princess murmurs. "You aren't as impetuous as Wrath in that regard, and good thing. Mother almost killed that form in her anger."

"Forgive me," Lust says, slowly choosing her words under the princess's intense gaze, "but I was under the impression that the consort's conversation with Wrath caused his present single-mindedness. Shouldn't the queen be pleased?" 

"The queen has," the princess says, stops, searching for a word. She settles on saying, "The queen has issues with the consort and his positioning within our hierarchy. Let's leave it that," she adds, when Lust opens her mouth. 

Lust nods, but asks, "Have I done something wrong in answering? I didn't mean to displease you or the queen." 

The princess sighs, turns away. Lust steps toward her and waits. "Nothing wrong. You said the traditional manner?" Lust says yes and the princess mutters something too low for Lust to hear before asking, "What do you talk about?" 

"Princess, I," Lust starts to say, reluctant to discuss her conversations with the consort. 

"Not word-for-word," the princess huffs. 

Judging by the tone and the way that the princess's demon is moving within the host, Lust is relatively sure the princess just rolled her eyes. Still, Lust is more than relieved she can't see the princess's face right now. 

"He has questions," Lust finally says. "About hell, about the way we do things, about our strategies and the coming war. About you and prince as well. I wouldn't be surprised if he called _you_ soon." 

The princess turns at that, eyes narrowed. "Why?"

Lust shrugs, swallows back a purr at the feel of the body under her command. "He asks questions I can't answer. You'll be able to, if you want to. And if not, you'll know what to say to get him to stop."

"Dean and I don't have the best relationship," the princess says, teeth bared as she smiles at Lust. If the expression is meant to soften her words or make Lust feel less off-balance, it fails miserably. 

"You," Lust starts, has to shake her head. "Princess, I don't understand. Granted, he prefers the prince, but he. He dreams often of that night in Charleston. Every time he touches the necklace he thinks of you. I can feel it; I _know_ what direction his thoughts take."

The princess shakes her head. "He doesn't lust after this body, or after me, except to see me broken and bleeding under his feet. No, Lust. He'll only call me as a last resort." 

Lust doesn't want to believe her, but she _is_ the princess. With an unsteady nod, Lust cedes the disagreement. "We just talk, princess. Nothing more, I swear." She waits, nerves tingling and skin brushed over with goosebumps, until the princess nods. 

"Go, then," the princess commands. "But be careful with Dean." 

Lust nods, dreaming of the next time the prince's consort will call her, and leaves the host, coiling throughout the air in search of her next victim. She craves the feel of another's skin, can feel a human full of want and need to the west. Burn, she thinks. Burn and entice, desire and thirst, nothing sweeter in hell or on earth, save the prince and his consort. Lust turns west, the taste of need already in her mouth, heat in the air as she slinks and slip-slides, searches out humans to ride to damnation. 

\--

Sam dreams and then Sam wakes. Dean's hand is on his shoulder, shaking him toward consciousness. 

"We're stopping for the night, Sam," Dean's saying. "Not fair that you get all the sleep, and I feel like a bed and not the backseat tonight. Okay? You awake?"

"Yeah," Sam says, rubbing crust out of his eyes, checking his barriers to make sure they're up, all but the one Dean's requested he leave down. 

He's still not entirely awake when Dean pulls into a motel parking lot; Dean parks and is the one to go inside and pay for a room while Sam yawns, shakes his head and slowly gets out of the Impala. His knees and ankles pop before he stretches, back cracking. The sound echoes in the parking lot, the empty, quiet night. 

Dean's back soon enough and gives Sam the room key, gets back into the Impala and drives it down to the room at the end of the row. "Mostly empty," Dean says, once they're pulling in bags and warding the room. "But I think they wanted the quiet. Nice couple," he adds. "Older. They won't bother us."

Sam's head feels like it's filled with cotton. His body aches with the remembered feeling of Castiel but he's still aware enough to see Dean reach up a hand to play with the piece of sodalite hanging from the chain around his neck. Sam frowns, is about to say something, but then his awareness reels a moment before someone knocks on the door. 

Dean's closer so he's the one to pick up a gun and open the door. Sam watches as Dean throws the door open after a getting a good look at the person outside, and can't help narrowing his eyes as he sees Ruby standing there. 

A head stuffed full of cotton and a body numb. Sam wonders how much of that is him, how tired he feels anymore, and how much of it was something Ruby did to block herself from his demon. He doesn't ask, though. Instead, Sam simply watches as Ruby stares at Dean. 

"I heard," Ruby says. 

Sam doesn't understand, not at first, but then he realises: Dean playing with the sodalite. Lust's conversation with the princess rises in the back of his mind and Sam says, "Ruby, are you," before he stops. He's not sure if he wants to know for sure that her meeting with Lust really happened. If it did, then that means. Sam's mind stutters and stops, wonders what, exactly, Lilith knows that she put such a large price on Eurynome's assistance.

"I'm ready," Dean says to Ruby before turning to look at Sam. "I'll be back," he says. "Try and get some sleep."

"You said you were tired," Sam replies. 

It's half statement, half question, but Dean chooses not to acknowledge the question and says, again, "I'll be back."

Watching Dean and Ruby leave together, watching them leave him alone, is one of the hardest things Sam has ever done. His entire being, human body and demon both, vibrate with the need to be with them. 

It hurts more than any whipping ever did.

\--

Sam doesn't sleep until Dean returns, four hours later. Neither of them say anything, just get ready for bed in a silence more profound than any Sam's experienced since hell. When they lay down, Dean's rigid next to him, obviously expecting Sam to say something, to ask questions. 

"You're all right," Sam half-asks, lying there, aching for something he can't put into words. 

Something of it must come through his voice, though, because Dean relaxes, shifts and curls an arm around Sam, pulling Sam flush against his body. "I am now," Dean murmurs. "Go to sleep, Sam."


	3. Chapter 3

Sam lifts a hand to his head, grimaces and shuts his eyes, trying to block out the pain. 

Dean's right there, one hand on Sam's shoulder, asking, "What's going on, Sam? Tell me, what's wrong?"

"Castiel," Sam mutters, gritting his teeth and opening his eyes, pushing himself to his feet. "It's the same way I felt when Castiel showed up before." He digs his nails into his hands, tries to bury them deeper in his skin than the agonising whine of Castiel's nearing presence. 

"Here," Dean murmurs, and maneuvers his hand under Sam's shirt. Sam isn't sure what Dean's doing but then he feels the slice of a knife and Dean's leaning closer, whispering prayers into Sam's ear, pausing only when Sam relaxes, the whine disappearing under the noise of Latin and the feeling of bruises and cuts blooming all over his body. "Better?" 

Sam glances at his brother, grins and angles his head, gives Dean a kiss. "Thank you." He pauses, adds, hesitantly, "You could go before he gets here." 

Dean scowls. "What, and leave you like this? I don't think so. Besides, I have something I wanna say to the angel." 

"You," Sam starts to say, then stops. He shakes his head, leans forward and mouths at Dean's neck, the action his own type of question, his own sort of answer. 

"Yeah," Dean mutters. 

\--

They're sitting side by side on the bed and facing the open door when Castiel walks up to the room. 

The angel stands there, takes them in, and says, "You have gone to great lengths to hide from me, Dean Winchester. And yet you remain when I made clear to your brother that I was approaching." 

Dean stands, sneering. Sam wonders, just in the deepest part of his heart, if it should really be this way: Dean glaring at an angel, telling it in no uncertain words, "I don't owe you or your fucking God anything, _angel_. Is it really such a surprise I don't want to talk to you or listen to you preach at me?"

"I was not going to," Castiel starts to say, before Dean cuts him off. 

"I don't care," Dean snarls. "Now you listen to _me_ , okay? You hurt Sam, I will kill you. You upset him, I'll kill you. You so much as breathe in the wrong direction around him, you're dead. If I have to drag you down to hell myself, I will. Do you understand?" 

The angel is staring at Dean, face drained of colour. "Dean, do you." 

" _Do you_ ," Dean interrupts, tone as hard and strong as diamond, " _understand_. It's a simple question, angel. Yes or no." 

Castiel's eyes are deep, endless, and full of mourning. "I understand, Dean." 

Dean stands there, fixed, unyielding. Sam finds himself holding his breath, then Dean nods and the tension in the room drops to a more manageable level. "Good," Dean says. "Then I'll leave you two to it. Remember what I said, Castiel." 

Sam can only sit, bemused, as Dean bends down, kisses Sam hard enough to draw blood, leaving Sam hard and panting as he skirts Castiel to walk out of the room. Sam's sort of shocked that Dean would leave him alone, but his body warms with the thought that Dean trusts him, that Dean _will_ do what he threatened if Sam so much as mentions displeasure. He shouldn't be so comforted by Dean's declaration; that he is, that he knows Dean meant it, can't be good. 

"Your brother moves further away from his humanity with every day that passes," Castiel finally says. 

"I know," Sam replies, quietly. 

Castiel holds his gaze, eventually nods and angles his body towards the door. "Will you walk with me, prince?" 

Sam's on the point of rising when he thinks. Dean's out there, probably within hearing range and holding a gun. Caésinha is close, and Vetis is as well; they have been ever since Ruby's last visit, keeping close to Sam even when he suggests they go elsewhere for a while. If Ruby knew an angel was visiting, she'd no doubt come and slap some sense into him as well. 

"Better we don't," Sam says, and twists on the bed, patting the empty space next to him. Castiel hesitates, only for a moment, then strides across and sits down gingerly, back straight and body language screaming reluctance. Something in Sam breaks, seeing that, and he slouches as he focuses on the comforter, picking the loose threads of a frayed hole. "Why are you here, Castiel? You have Dean's answer. I thought that's all you wanted." 

Castiel takes a deep breath. "It is true that I was dispatched to receive an answer from Dean, yes. But now that I am here." He stops there; Sam can feel the angel struggle to hold to its host. He checks his barriers, makes sure they're all up and as tight as he can make them. Castiel looks away and Sam gets it, then, gets that Castiel isn't having problems because of him.

"What is it?" Sam asks, soft, reaching out and placing his hand over Castiel's before remembering. His palm hisses and smokes, sending pain deep into his bones and soothing the ache of Castiel's presence. 

"I wish to understand," Castiel says. 

Sam frowns, asks, "Understand what?"

The angel removes his hand from under Sam's, studies his host's skin as it knits together under his eyes. "You, Samuel. What would drive you to redeem your brother. What strength you possess to survive hell. What your goals are now that you have returned to earth." 

"Gathering intel on the enemy?" Sam asks, joking. 

Castiel's eyes narrow as his face turns away, toward the door. "No." 

Sam's smile fades and he studies the angel. "The angels that fell and became demons," he says. "The strongest ones, particularly, all possess more than a healthy amount of curiosity. They say it's endemic to the rulers of hell. It seems that was an original quirk, not one that came later." 

"Do you possess that trait as well?" Castiel asks, still not looking at Sam. 

"Yeah," Sam says with a snort. "Though Sycorax taught me a lesson about it at one point."

Castiel turns back to Sam, frowning. "You speak of them so lightly."

Sam shrugs, lets his eyes fall back down to the comforter. "It isn't light," he says, slowly, picking his way through the words. "There's," he pauses, mind skipping through his memories of hell, his encounters with them since, "history. We have history. If I talk about them lightly, it's only because I've earned that right. It's only because."

"What?" Castiel asks, a few moments after Sam's trailed off. "It's only because?" 

"Because we're family," Sam says. "Because I love them." 

Castiel makes a noise at that, body tensing as he pulls away from Sam the slightest bit, just enough for Sam to notice. "You said you love your brother." 

"And I do," Sam says, staring at the angel. 

"How can you say you love him when you say you love those such as Lilith?" Castiel asks, looking at Sam with an intensity that Sam can't parse.

Sam has to look away though he can feel Castiel's gaze remain on him. "The, the _idea_ that I became, when I summoned Lilith and broke Dean's deal. There was a writer." 

Castiel hums, says, "We are aware of him. He was much beloved by Ecanus." 

Ecanus. Sam thinks, uses the knowledge of the Eumenides to help him place the name. Ecanus, an angelic scribe. It fits. 

"He wrote about love," Sam finally goes on to say, looking back at Castiel. "That there are different types of love. Why can't I love Dean and Lilith, just in different ways? What about that is so hard to understand?" He pauses, says, quietly, "It's because I'm a demon, isn't it. You still don't think we can love. Castiel, we _can_ and we _do_. Maybe not in the same way as heaven, but we aren't heaven. We haven't been heaven since you kicked us out." 

The angel doesn't say anything, just searches Sam's face as if the answers he's seeking are written across the curve of Sam's cheeks, the expanse of Sam's forehead. "You cannot profess to love any human if you bring the apocalypse to this world. Humans, close to you or otherwise, will not survive unscathed."

Sam snorts, says, "I'm not _bringing_ the apocalypse, Castiel. With or without me, it's going to happen." 

"You called a Eumenide, though," Castiel presses. "You cannot say that you are stopping the apocalypse if you summon a Eumenide to the surface. Lilith has come up once since she brought you back after the bargain was finished. She met with you. The princess roams freely. Everything you do takes us one step closer to armageddon. All of our commanders speak of war and the final battle, and." 

Castiel stops there, looks as if he just realised he's said too much. Guessing at the way heaven works, Sam thinks he might have. 

"I'm not _stopping_ the apocalypse either," Sam says. "No one is. Both sides want it. I'm just not hurrying it along -- not _bringing_ it -- as fast as I could and probably should be." 

"You do know, Samuel," Castiel says, "that what you are doing, it will not be enough." 

Sam gives Castiel a tight smile. The angel may be speaking generally, or he might be speaking very specifically. Sam's not about to ask for clarification. "Yeah. I know." 

Castiel opens his mouth, then shuts it again, tongue darting out and swiping out over his lips. He takes a deep breath, then asks, "Is that why you allow your brother to pursue his path without challenge? Because if so, Samuel. There are no guarantees that demons will survive any better than humans." 

"Nor angels," Sam replies, eyes narrowing at the threat. 

"No," Castiel says, looking down. Sam does as well, watches as Castiel reaches down to put his hand flat on the comforter, slide it across the blanket until his fingertips are just barely brushing against Sam's. "No, there are not." 

\--

They sit in silence for a long time after that, a time that turns strangely fluid to Sam's senses. Castiel hardly even breathes and the ache of his presence, the slight touch of his fingers, settles into a rhythm that burns in time to Sam's heartbeat. 

When Dean knocks once on the doorway, they both jump, turning and separating from each other. Dean eyes them both, arms folded across his chest. 

"You're okay?" he asks; even though he's watching Castiel, it's clear that he isn't asking the angel. 

"I'm fine," Sam replies as he stands. Dean moves to stand next to Sam, leaves the door open and doesn't block the way towards it. "Are you?" 

Dean just snorts, though he does press against Sam, as if he's reassuring himself that Sam's all right, that or reminding Sam that he's there. It'd be hard to ignore; Dean is a hard, uncompromising line next to Sam. 

Castiel looks between them, then at the door. "I am sure we will meet again, Samuel Winchester," Castiel says. "Whether Dean joins us or not is, of course, up to him now." 

"Is that a threat?" Dean asks, hint of a growl in his voice. 

"No," Castiel says. "More of a promise, I think." 

Dean makes to move but Sam holds his brother back, feeling edges of Envy and Wrath leaking outwards from Dean. 

Sam doesn't let go until Castiel has left. 

Instead of going to close the door, check their wards, Dean spins in place, puts his hands on Sam's shoulders, fingers digging in, and hisses, "What the hell is going on, Sam? And don't even _think_ about lying to me." 

Sam nods, a shallow gesture, and says, "I don't know." Dean's fingers dig deeper, sending a wave of pain-induced pleasure throughout Sam's body. "Dean, I really don't know. I wish I did." 

Dean stares, finally lets go and stalks over to the door, slamming it closed with such force that one of the paintings falls off of the wall. "Fuck." 

"He had his orders and fulfilled them and he's still come back," Sam says, softly. "He wants to know what's going on, too. None of us know."

"None of you," Dean repeats. "Sam, that's crap, okay? You're the fucking prince of hell; you know what's happening. What and why and the reasons. So tell me." 

Sam shrugs, feels helpless. "I don't know. I don't know why they sent him now. I don't know why they care so much about stopping you and I don't know what you're doing and I don't know what orders Ruby has and I don't know any more about my gifts or why they're changing. Dean, the only thing I know is _you_. And I don't feel like I even know you half the time anymore." 

Dean's frozen, his eyes shining with the light of a certain kind of horror. Sam's only seen that horror three times in his life: when he left for Stanford, as he died in Dean's arms outside of Cold Oak, and after he spoke one word in a crossroads outside of hell and limbo.

"Sam," Dean says. "You're not serious. You can't be."

"I know that sometimes," Sam says, "you only think you can lay claim to me because I'm wearing this." He lifts one hand, strokes the collar. Dean's eyes don't move to track the gesture; he's still staring at Sam. "I know you worry that I don't love you as much as Ruby or Lilith, or that I'll pick them over you when the die's cast, or that something or someone will tear us apart. But, Dean."

Dean's shaking his head, saying, "Stop, Sam," but they both know Sam won't. It needs to be said. Sam should've told Dean a long time ago, before he accepted Dean's collar, maybe even before that crossroads or Cold Oak or Stanford. 

"But, Dean," Sam says, over his brother. Dean stops, mouth parted around words that Sam won't listen to. "Dean, I went to hell for you. I _chose_ hell for you and if there's one way I'm changing hell, one way that hell's different now, it's because of choice. It's hard for me in some ways, easier in others, but I chose you before and I'll choose you again, every time. I'll mess up," he adds, thinking of Ruby and Eurynome and Miami and Missoula, wry smile sneaking on to his face, "but it won't be because someone or something else is more important you. It just means I'm weak." 

"You called a Eumenide," Dean says, stumbling over the word. He hasn't moved and Sam's trying not to think about how much that hurts, to be facing off against his brother like this. Instead, he wonders how Dean knows about Eurynome and whether Ruby told him; of course, the door was open when he and Castiel were talking, so Dean could have heard it then. "Why?" 

Sam takes a deep breath, says, "I was having dreams. I was astral projecting, I think, into demons. I tried to do it on purpose one day while you were gone and rode Vetis and Sonneillon. I summoned Eurynome to see if she would tell me why or how it was happening, and to ask about the healing." 

"Did she tell you anything?" Dean asks. 

"No," Sam says. He doesn't want to say any more but he can see Dean getting ready to ask, so Sam adds, "Lilith put a price on her answers."

Dean's tone is guarded as he says, "I'm not going to like the price, I am." 

Sam snorts, looks away. "No. She told me I had to fuck Ruby in front of her if I wanted to know what was going on." 

There's a pause, a long pause, and Dean half-asks, "You didn't," before flat-out asking, "Did you?" 

Sam turns back to look at Dean so fast that his neck cracks. He must be look ridiculous, staring and gaping in sheer disbelief, but he _cannot_ believe Dean would even have to ask. "I wanted to, but no. No, I didn't. I sent Eurynome back to hell. Dean. How could. You told me not to." 

"I know how much you want to," Dean says. "And I know how much you want answers. Can you blame me for wondering?" 

At first, Sam wants to say yes, wants to rage and fight, but he knows the ground he's standing on isn't at all firm. He came dangerously close to agreeing to Lilith's demands; he shouldn't forget that. "No," he ends up saying, quiet and closed off. 

"Since we're already knee-deep in a chick-flick moment," Dean says, before swallowing. He looks almost like someone's driving a knife into his back; Sam could _kill_ himself for causing Dean that much pain. "Sometimes I don't feel like. Sam, you're the. Without me, you still have Ruby. You have Ruby and Lilith and the demons that. But. Sam, you're the only."

Sam crosses the space between them, can't stand there and listen to Dean's stops and starts, the way his brother looks ripped to shreds and dying, as if Sam's strung him on a rack and is pulling Dean apart. Sam drops to his knees in front of Dean, presses his cheek to Dean's stomach as his hands slide up Dean's ass, settle on his back and pull Dean closer, holding Dean tight. 

The restlessness and jealousy Sam can feel hovering around Dean speak of Sloth and Envy, but the pain, the agony, that's a different feeling, a different smell. Sam inhales, tries to place the demon, but can't. 

Dean's fingers tangle in Sam's hair, nails gently scratching the scalp even as Sam feels every muscle in Dean's body tense. "You're the only one I have, Sam," Dean says, soft enough to be a whisper were it not for the scraping anguish in his voice. "And every day, it feels like you get further and further away from me. I'm just doing my best to keep up." 

"I'm not going anywhere," Sam says, leaning back and looking up at Dean, who's still staring straight ahead. "Dean. Look at me. Please." He waits until Dean shifts, glances down, then says, "I didn't leave after Miami. I didn't go back to hell with Lilith after Missoula. Fuck, I didn't stay in hell with her after I finished my side of the bargain. I'm not going anywhere." 

It doesn't look like Dean's convinced. Sam growls, tightens his hold on his brother, then feels the demonic scent around Dean shift and change. Every hint of the seven disappears, flooded over by the smell Sam couldn't place just a minute ago. He can now, overheard conversations between Dean and Wrath, Lust and Ruby coming together in his mind along with things Ruby's said before, dream-snapshots Sam can only half-remember, a million other pieces. 

"Me," Sam breathes. Sam stares up at his brother, jaw slack with astonishment, and says it again. " _Me_." 

"Me, what?" Dean asks, eyes narrowed. 

Sam shakes his head, stands up and kisses his brother, a kiss that's harsh and rough and claiming, a kiss that Dean can only react to. "Whatever you're doing," Sam says between licks and nips, between short, shallow kisses and long ones that steal Dean's breath, "whatever ritual you've found or been told about. You've." 

He can't focus long enough to explain, can't stop from touching his brother, so Sam tugs, pulls on the connection between his demon and whatever part of him is inside of Dean now. His body thrums, vibrates to a rhythm deeper and darker and older than anything even in hell, and the two of them go down in a tangle of arms and legs, hitting the floor without anything to break their fall. 

" _Me_ ," Sam murmurs, shamelessly rutting against Dean. His rationality is slipping away, coasting on a river of sacrifice and choice, and all he can do is keep touching his brother, trying to make Dean understand what Sam does: the level of their connection, the potential for eternity together, so close, closer than ever before. 

"Hey," Dean says, hands tight around Sam's wrists, trying to get Sam to stop. Sam can't, though, isn't in control any longer, and it takes Dean yanking at the collar until Sam can barely breathe, and saying his name in a tone of voice that means Sam can't do anything but obey. " _Sam_." 

Sam takes a shuddering breath, his lungs protesting, and tries to still the need thrumming under his skin. He can't stop touching Dean, hands sliding under Dean's shirt and pressing against bare skin, feeling the aura around Dean twist and writhe with need. He's half-draped over his brother, one leg between Dean's, one elbow digging into the thin carpet and turning numb. Sam doesn't care.

Only after Sam's caught his breath, heart no longer hammering its way out of his chest, Dean says, "Ruby told me what I was doing and that it's working." There's a long pause, Sam's almost ready to ask any of the million questions on the tip of his tongue, but Dean adds, "I didn't ask you. Is that. You don't."

"You didn't need to," Sam says, cutting Dean off. He leans close, rubs his nose along the juncture of Dean's shoulder and neck, inhaling and studying the scent. There are a number of rituals Dean chose from; Sam will know which one if he can just dig a little deeper. He can't focus, though, not through the haze of him-in-Dean, the feeling of Dean's collar around his neck. 

"I can hold on to this much of you," Dean murmurs, wrapping his arms tight around Sam. "I'll always have at least this much." 

Sam smiles, leans up and looks at Dean, _really_ looks in a way he hasn't for a long time. "When you gave me the collar," he says, "the very first time. Do you remember what you said?" Dean frowns, shakes his head; Sam's sure Dean remembers the gist but perhaps not the actual words. "It's a sign that I'm yours, so that everyone else knows. Even with Ruby and Lilith and the demons, the collar's a sign that I belong to you. You didn't _need_ to do what you're doing, Dean." 

Dean holds Sam's gaze. Instead of reacting badly as Sam half-expected, Dean gives Sam a smile shaded with fatigue, that and sheer fucking stubbornness. "It's my choice," Dean says. "And I wanted to." 

"And I want you," Sam replies. He drops his head, worn out from the adrenaline rush, comfortable here lying on Dean, willing to give in and give up, just for a few minutes. "I'm still wearing _your_ collar, after all." 

"Yeah," Dean murmurs. "Yeah, I know." They lie there, on the floor, for what seems like forever until Dean says, "We should get up." 

Sam hums, says, "Yeah." 

Neither of them move. 

\--

The headache comes back, the one that means Castiel is on his way, a couple weeks later. They're on a hunt, doing some research on genealogy in the local library when the whine strikes deep into Sam's head, almost knocking him unconscious with the sudden force of it. 

Dean's right there, like always, and he helps Sam out to the car, back to the motel, as the whine settles in deep, stabbing into every part of his body. 

"Wish he could turn that off," Sam mutters, eyes closed in hopes that a lack of light will help. 

"Wish he'd stop fucking bothering us," Dean says, vitriol lacing his words like poison. Sam sighs, but Dean asks, slightly calmer, "Know when he'll show up?" 

Sam opens his eyes, squinting in his brother's general direction. "Why?" 

Dean's doing something, maybe taking something out of a duffel, but he comes over and crouches in front of where Sam's sitting on the edge of the bed, between Sam's spread legs. Dean pulls the necklace out from under his shirt, holds up the piece of sodalite. 

"You're seeing Ruby soon," Sam guesses. He weighs that against his impression of Castiel's arrival time, comes up swearing. "Fuck. How soon?" 

A knock on the door, and Sam meets Dean's eyes. "Shit," Dean says.

Ruby opens the door before either of them move, walks inside as her eyes narrow, taking the two of them in. Sam's about to say hello but the whine jacks up in intensity and he nearly falls off the bed, back arching as pain sweeps through him from head to toe. 

"The hell's going on?" Ruby asks, crossing in the room in quick, angry strides, though her touch is gentle as she grasps Sam's chin, tilts his face up. "Dean?" 

Sam would be pleased that Ruby's asking _Dean_ , relieved that they've apparently reached some sort of truce to be able to stand next to one another and worry over him together, but he can't think, can't focus on anything more than the sharp needles of Castiel's presence growing stronger as the angel sweeps closer. 

"This isn't a good time," Dean says. 

Ruby shakes her head, cuts Dean off with a glare. "Why are you hiding this, whatever it is? What's _wrong_ with him?" 

Implicit in her tone is an accusation, one that Sam knows Dean won't ignore. He has no idea how to stop a fight from happening, from escalating, except then the focus turns off of him and to the door, with one breeze and a cleared throat. 

Sam stands up even as Ruby's turning to face the door. She freezes when she sees Castiel but it doesn't throw her for a more than a handful of seconds. Instead, Ruby catches herself, hisses, and takes a step forward as she snarls, " _Angel_." 

Reaching out, Sam grabs hold of Ruby's arm, tugs her back. She's stronger than him, wouldn't have any trouble shaking his grip, but she stops moving closer to Castiel and waits. Her demon coils, twists, as if it is saying Sam better have a damn good reason for holding her back. "Ruby," he murmurs. "Please. It's all right. He's not here to hurt us." 

" _He_? _Hurt_?" Ruby says, turning to Sam, eyes wide in shock. "Sam, what the _fuck_. It's an _angel_." 

"What I've been trying to tell him," Dean mutters. Ruby glances at Dean and he shrugs, says, "You think I'm any more happy about this than you?"

Ruby holds Dean's gaze, then swings it to Sam, focused on him. She reaches out, trails her fingertips down Sam's cheek as her head tilts to one side. Sam shivers at her touch, looks at his brother. Dean's standing there, keeping one eye on Castiel even as he's watching Ruby. 

"Sam," Ruby murmurs. "This is not unreal. We have given of ourselves to you; we are a _part_ of you. What are you doing talking to the enemy?"

With a smile, Sam looks past Ruby to Castiel. She quotes Whitman at him, there's only one possible way to reply. "'My Emanation far within weeps incessantly.' He was sent to save Dean. He still wants to, even though Dean's committed to his path. Castiel and I, we have things in common. I like talking to him."

The angel tilts his head, eyes momentarily dipping to the ground. Neither one of them has said it so explicitly before, Dean's two keepers, the angel and demon who never had to fight for Dean's loyalty because it has always, already, been decided. 

No one says anything for a long time; barely anyone even moves. Castiel's the first, eyes flicking between the three as he says, "I should not have come." 

"No," Ruby bites. "You shouldn't have. And you shouldn't come back. So don't." Dean, on the other side of Sam, nods once in agreement. 

Castiel turns his gaze to Sam, and Sam steps forward, holding up a hand as both Ruby and Dean move for him. Either he let loose some kind of power or they stopped of their own accord, but he's free to walk right to Castiel, to lean forward and slide his lips against the angel's. Castiel's mouth is cool and dry, his skin weathered under Sam's touch. They both burn. They both ignore it as they separate, Sam's forehead pressed against Castiel's. 

"This is the land whereon thou liest, and to thee will I give it," the angel murmurs, words brushing against Sam's lips just as Castiel's mouth is. "Never forget that, Samuel. It is a worthy battle." 

Sam's lips are burning, his gums feel as if they are on fire, and still he stands there, frozen in shock. Castiel quoted Genesis and Sam knows what the next two verses say, what Castiel is committing to. Stunned, overwhelmed by what Castiel is promising, Sam can only say, "A holy kiss. I don't deserve that." 

Castiel makes a noise deep in his throat, then says, "None of us receive what we deserve." 

It's as clear an apology as Castiel will ever make for everything they've argued about, agreed to disagree on and, in that moment, he understands why Castiel has returned to them, even after Dean's refusal to back down. His heart skips a beat and he twines his fingers in with Castiel's, holding the angel there, a tacit command that Castiel obeys without hesitation. 

"Hell has changed," Sam says, a sense of urgency in his voice. "It _always_ changes. Remember that, Castiel. Please."

Castiel nods, slips his hand out of Sam's grasp. With a glance at Ruby and Dean, a final smile, pulled up from some deep reserve, more downcast than anything else, Castiel leaves. 

Sam finds himself waiting for the absence of the angel's presence; when it comes, when Castiel has left and taken the host somewhere far away, the aching whine leaves his body, his mind. Sam finds he misses it. 

"What just happened?" Dean asks, once a few minutes have passed and Sam hasn't said anything. 

"Did the angel," Ruby starts to say, stops as if she can't believe what she'd been about to say. "Sam? Talk to us." 

Sam lets his barriers fall, hears Dean and Ruby let loose startled noises at the same time, and turns, gives Ruby a tight smile. "Call Eurynome. Tell her it's time." Ruby frowns, starts to ask what the fuck he's talking about, but Sam shakes his head and the smile flakes away slowly. "Please, Ruby. She'll understand." 

Ruby's frown deepens and she glances at Dean before turning back to Sam and nodding slowly. "All right. I'll go. But I expect answers, Sam." 

She brushes past him, muscles tense with displeasure and envy. The door slams closed when she leaves; a car roars outside and then Sam feels her start to travel away even as Vetis and Caésinha move closer. 

Sam holds out one hand and Dean takes it, squeezes tight enough to pop Sam's knuckles and wrist. "What's the deal with the angel?" Dean asks, his other hand going up to Sam's neck, fingers gliding over the collar before he tugs Sam's head down, kisses the taste of ashes from Castiel out of Sam's mouth. "Why was Ruby upset?" 

"Angels are coming," Sam says, his hands spanning Dean's hips, thumbs lodged in the belt loops of Dean's jeans. "A lot of them. But Castiel, he'll fight with us." 

Dean's face holds nothing but shock. "He's going to fall?" 

Sam sighs, tugs Dean to the bed, sits down and feels the weight of hell's expectations settle on his shoulders. "He's going to hold out as long as he can," Sam says, kicking off his shoes and then bending down to untie Dean's boots. "He'll make them rip his grace from him. But they have to find out first."

"I thought," Dean starts to say, then bats Sam's hands away when they start to unbutton his shirt. Dean does it himself, pulls it over his head, and Sam grins as Dean flops backwards, staring at the ceiling. "He came here to stop me," Dean says. "Sam." 

Lying down, curling into the heat Dean's giving off, Sam merely says, "You don't have to trust him." 

Dean turns enough to look at Sam, and asks, "You do?" 

Sam lifts a hand to his collar and closes his eyes. "I understand him," Sam whispers. "We understand each other. I know you don't like it, and Ruby likes it even less, but Castiel, he'll." Sam stops there, takes a deep breath. He opens his eyes, moves to straddle Dean, and uses his weight and size to force Dean to pay attention to him. "I don't trust him as much as Ruby, and I don't trust her as much as you. But he'll be a valuable ally. We could use him on our side, Dean." 

Dean searches Sam's eyes, reaches up and tugs at the collar. He kisses Sam slow and gentle, thoughtful, and Sam's skin breaks out into goosebumps. "If I said I didn't like it," Dean asks, shades of Envy and Pride and Sam riding his words, "what would you do? If I said I didn't ever want you to see him again." 

"I wouldn't," Sam replies without hesitation. It's only half a lie, maybe not even that much. 

"Good," Dean says. Dean studies him just a moment longer, then rolls them until Sam's on his back and Dean's above him, filling his vision, blocking out everything else. Dean grinds down and Sam can't help the gasp; Dean's hard, already, and reeking Lust. "No more talk of angels tonight, 'kay?" 

Sam swallows, mouth parting around a silent moan as Dean's teeth dig into his shoulder, spilling blood and tearing the skin. "Dean," he breathes. " _Dean_." 

Dean puts one finger over Sam's lips, and smiles. "It's all right, Sam. I'm here."


End file.
